Burnt
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: Post-Mockingjay. Katniss bakes bread for Peeta, as both a show of gratitude and repayment for an old debt. K/P, angst-y.


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **This is post-Mockingjay.**

 **~ Katniss's POV ~**

I only have one picture of my father. It's one that predates the mine explosion; it's in black and white, the exact opposite of the vibrant colors that defined the Capitol, blinded your eyes and senses. He's young, not entirely hardened by the days without light the mines provided. I saved it through the years, though its edges are faded and worn from my constantly holding it. I brought it to my blood-bought house in Victor's Village, and brought it with me to the grey underground levels of District 13. And when I finally returned home, I received a package with a simple note saying it's full of my personal belongings from District 13. It was in it.

I couldn't open it for weeks. It sat in a corner near the kitchen. Buttercup sat on it and wagged his tail in a swaying swing.

It stayed there, even after I moved into Peeta's house following our low-key, homey toasting.

That photograph is a memory I want to remember of my father. Young, alive. I have only so many good memories. Memories that I treasure, get me through the hard times by making me remember that good moments, though few and far between, still exist.

Another good memory I hold, a perfect photograph in my mind, is the day Peeta helped me against his mother's will, in the cold rain with the burnt, life-saving bread intended for the mud-stomping pigs. I looked at that photograph over the years as many times as I studied my father's face. I saw the hand slammed into his face. Remembered the cold sting of the merciless rain. Tasted those gritty seeds in my mouth. Relived the realization that we can _survive_ now.

I've treasured that memory through the years, but not more so than during the Hunger Games, and sitting in relative useless in District 13. I've thought of it as a calming memory in my relapses in PTSD when I moved back into my Victor's Village house. I remember it when I look at the fighting, hardened eyes of Peeta when he fights his own lapses.

I see the Peeta who saved my life mixed right in with the Peeta who bruised my neck with his choking fingers. It's a struggle in him, being a mixture of the two.

But he's still there, that kind-hearted boy.

I don't like having debts, feeling like I owe anyone anything. I know that I've repaid Peeta several times over, but those have been for different things. And I also know I've endangered him many times.

But for all the times we've counteracted our own standing debts, I feel like I've never repaid him for that bread. For that one small act of kindness that no one but a small boy would give a fatherless girl.

So one day, when he's out in the construction of our new District 12, organizing the rebuilding of his family bakery, I get up and braid my hair out of the way. Wash my hands. Tug on one of his big aprons. Scoop flour out of a barrel in the pantry. Supplies have increased exponentially since they're no longer filtered primarily into the Capitol's greedy city. Peeta and I, amongst others, have a generous pension granted to us for the rest of our lives. Sometimes I think 'No, others deserve this, too. Why are just we getting it?' Other times I'm too amazed by the abundance sitting in our pantry.

I shove those thoughts out of my head and mix the flour with proofing yeast and water. Buttercup curls around my legs, his tail flickering at my knees. I add seeds and herbs I gathered in the grey days of fall yesterday. And I knead it with so much strength. No wonder Peeta developed those muscles after years of constant use.

I sit with my legs curled, in that big apron, as it rises. Look up and watch the hands crawl around the clock. Form the loaves and build up the fireplace with splinter-covered logs as they rise. We have an oven that's electric, but I need fire-formed crust.

I study and babysit those loaves like they're far too precious. I turn them and check them. Watch the flames crackle. And Buttercup sits next to me. The flames leap in his eyes and he stays perfectly still. It's a moment of peace between us. I savor those and get more of them these days than I ever did.

I burn my fingers when I pull the bread out, but I don't care. I wrap them in a clean kitchen rag and place them in a basket, just as the front door opens. I hear "Katniss?" and it takes too long for me to draw my eyes from them to Peeta.

He walks over to me, smelling like fall and fresh air. We've switched to each other. Me making bread and him smelling like the outdoors.

He sits in front of me, looks from me to the bread to Buttercup to the fire, and back to me again.

"I didn't know you could bake," Peeta says softly.

I didn't know I could either. Breaking apart one of the loaves, I offer him a large chunk. And looking in his eyes is looking into that memory again. I don't have a physical photograph of that cold day so long ago, but I still see it like a photograph in front of me everyday.

"I made us bread," I say.

A soft bend of his mouth lends itself to a smile. On the floor together, we stick our chunks of bread onto long-handled forks we used for our toasting, and together, we stick our bread into the eating flames, until it's crackly, on fire, and burnt.

 **I like writing in Katniss's voice. I find it beautiful.**

 **Thanks for reading! (Review? :))**


End file.
